


Anathema

by wormguts



Series: The Pariah Phantasm [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Age Difference, And somewhat of a plot, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Porn, Awkward Boners, Big Brother Dick Grayson, Bottom Damian Wayne, Bruce Wayne is Dead, Canon-Typical Violence, Damian Wayne Needs a Hug, Damian Wayne is Robin, Dick Grayson is Batman, Dirty Thoughts, Dom/sub Undertones, Don't Examine This Too Closely, Don't Like Don't Read, First Time, Forbidden Love, Good Boy, Growing Up, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I'm Going to Hell, Identity Porn, Imagination, Incest Kink, M/M, Masturbation, Only Kind of - Freeform, POV Damian Wayne, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Pseudo-Incest, Puberty, Self-Esteem Issues, Sexual Fantasy, Size Kink, Slow Burn, Smut, Top Dick Grayson, Voyeurism, Wet Dream, Work In Progress, Young Love, oops spoiler?, they're not really related
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 02:50:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18730222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wormguts/pseuds/wormguts
Summary: Damian's first orgasm was involuntary. His second was not.Or: Damian has his first wet dream and who would star but the dazzling Dick Grayson.Takes place during that weird time where Dick was Batman and Damian was going through a lot of changes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've decided to continue writing this so here we are. enjoy this complete dumpster fire of a story ღゝ◡╹)ノ♡

 

> _“The virtuous man contents himself with dreaming that which the wicked man does in actual life.”_

Sigmund Freud

* * *

 

It’s somewhere in the cosmos between day and night that it first happens.

 

The room is painted a cool shade of grey. Moonlight seeps through the open window, drags shadows across the floor in the shape of nightmares. Outside, a hodgepodge of stars and constellations peek through the clouded, hazy skyline. The wind is the only sound to disrupt the eerie silence. It rustles the curtains in a gentle embrace.

 

The city is sleeping. Damian should be sleeping too.

 

An ugly little part of him wishes he still were.

 

With effort, he unclenches his fingers from the edge of his sheets. He’s surprised to note he didn’t rip them, didn't tear the thin material with how tightly he gripped it, but any satisfaction he might have felt dies the moment he glances down at himself. He stares for a long moment, uncomprehending. There’s a wet patch in his pajamas. It's sticky.

 

Utter shame, embarrassment, and disgust wash over him in waves. He’d... _in his sleep._

 

He pushes his face into his damp pillow (had he been crying?) to hide the sight, only to whimper when his member presses against the mattress. His eyes well with tears before he knows it’s happening.

 

 _Why?_ he thinks stupidly. He isn’t sure what he means. Why him? Why that dream? Why did he come in his sleep like a depraved animal? The most pressing, perhaps, is _why is he hard again just thinking about it?_

He bites his hand to stifle the sob that wracks through his body. He lies, paralyzed in the early morning dim. He hasn’t slept peacefully in days. Each night features a series of nightmares so vivid he half believes them memories. His head hurts, his stomach hurts, and it takes everything within him not to smash his head into the bedroom wall and stick his fingers so far into his eyes they poke through the other side. He wants to tear his flesh apart, see the bones, taste the blood on his fingertips, anything to _stop thinking_.

 

He knows the mind is a dangerous place. It has never been kind to him. Most things aren’t. But his brain can be good sometimes. It gives him good dreams. It’s the good dreams he clings to when he closes his eyes every night — the happy dreams of good times, of good people.

 

This dream was a good dream. There was nothing evil, nothing perverse about it.

 

Damian is the perverted one.

 

He angrily tries to divert his thoughts, to will his erection away. To his frustration, he can’t keep the ideas, the images from flashing before his eyes. He wants to scream, to cry and yell and most of all, forget it happened. But he’s stuck. He’s terrified.

 

 _“That’s my Robin,”_ dream Dick had said. He says it every time Damian’s done something particularly good. It always makes Damian swell with pride and accomplishment. But what he said next had been a different level entirely.

 

Damian feels his face heat in the semi-darkness. He wants the bed to open up and swallow him whole. He rolls onto his back and glares at the ceiling. The smart thing to do would be to drag himself to the bathroom, shower, and never touch on this again.

 

That ugly little part of him wants to sink its nails in and hang on.

 

 _“Good boy,”_ dream Dick had whispered with a smile. He’d said it so... so _innocently_. There was nothing to his voice that indicated anything dirty. What prompted the slew of debauched, degrading thoughts to enter Damian’s world had been _harmless praise_.

 

Damian groans now just recalling the fantasy encounter. He doesn’t know why those two words make him so painfully hard he can’t focus on anything else. Again, he thinks _why?_ This time, however, it isn’t _why me;_ this time, it’s _why not?_

 

His teeth sink into his bottom lip as he finally gives in to his body’s ache. By now, the sun is beginning to rise, bathing the room in the first rays of liquid gold. As such, he has a better view of the mess. His prick is straining against his boxer shorts, twitching and hard. It pops up when he pushes the band of his underwear down. He cringes in equal parts embarrassment and disgust. There’s a steady stream of precum leaking from the tip. He’s never seen it so red before. He’s never had it _hurt_.

 

He has the sense to push his t-shirt up and shove part of it in his mouth. If he hadn’t, he might have screamed at the first experimental touch to his cock. He pulls his hand back immediately, panting. It feels... it feels strange. He hasn’t done this before. He didn’t see the use of it. How...?

 

“You know how,” he grumbles to himself, mouth full of t-shirt. He’s never _seen it_ done before, but he knows the mechanics. Stimulating the penis would be the quickest route to orgasm; then he’s only a shower away from burying this in a deep, dark corner of his mind, never to be looked at again.

 

Shame bleeds ugly upon his skin in an angry red flush. With determination, he gently grasps his sensitive member, hissing at the sensation. Later, he will dwell on the fact that his first orgasm happened while he was unconscious, but for now, he concentrates on the feeling of his hand slowly dragging up and down his prick, slick with precum and sweat.

 

His head replays dream Dick’s soft praise like some kind of sick joke as he pushes himself toward release. Instead of worrying him or slowing him down, it only propels him forward. Soon he finds himself whispering things in return, adding in other things for imaginary Dick to say and do. Things like Dick teasing him for something, patting his head as he tends to do sometimes, smiling at him.

 

His fantasy session is cut short when his brain momentarily reverts to the memory of Dick from yesterday. He’d yelled at Damian about running in before him during a Riddler takedown. It was pretty standard, but Dick, in the full Batman get-up, wasn’t happy.

 

“You could’ve gotten hurt!” Dick had yelled. Even with the cowl between them, Damian could see his furious expression.

 

“But I _didn’t_ ,” Damian had spat back, equally frustrated at being treated like a child. He could take care of himself. He didn’t need to be babysat.

 

Then Dick had come close, a tall, shadowy figure a grown man might cower before. He towered over Damian in a way that only he could. Damian thought Dick might strike him. He knew Dick believed he deserved it.

 

Only... Dick didn’t do that at all. He crouched down to Damian’s level, slipping the cowl off. He put his hand on Damian’s shoulder and looked him in the eye, a smile tugging on his lips. “I know you had it. I’m glad you did. But please be more careful next time. I don’t want anything to happen to you...” as he spoke, his hand gravitated towards Damian’s head, and for some unfathomable reason, Damian let him card his long fingers through his hair. He patted his head, grinned, and said: _“That’s my little babybird.”_

 

Damian grips himself and earnestly tugs, chasing his oncoming orgasm like a madman. He feels hysteric. Salty tears stream down his cheeks, sweat coats his body, and there's drool dripping from his open, panting mouth. He can’t even see. His eyes are closed and all he sees, all he cares about seeing, is Dick. He whines pathetically, near sobs again. He just has to make this end. He just needs to get there. He needs—

 

 _“Good boy,”_ dream Dick had said.

 

Damian cries out as his orgasm hits him. His body shakes and trembles, ropes of cum spurting from him, spilling over his hand, landing on his belly, chest, and thighs. He strokes himself until it hurts, his member oversensitive and spent, and then he lies for a while longer, until his breathing slows and his heartbeat no longer pounds in his ears. He lies until his come and tears have dried. He lies until his brain catches up.

 

 _Why?_ he thinks. It is no longer a question, but a feeling. He’s done something he will never come back from, something so terribly concrete he feels it on his chest. How will he look at Dick again? How will he live with the knowledge that this platonic bond they share has been ruined by his imagination?

 

Perhaps most important of all, _why did he like it?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dick: I'M UPSET BECAUSE I CARE ABOUT YOU  
> damian: i'M uPsEt bEcAuSe i'M a fUcKiNg cUCK


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promise chapters will be longer than this in the future but for now with finals and everything this is all i can manage. sorry （；へ：）

 

 

>   _"Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die, life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly."_

Langston Huges

* * *

 

October brings with it frigid winds and an overwhelming sense of dread. It’s that time of year when the weather starts to cool off, painting the trees a violent kaleidoscope of auburn and scarlet to match the setting sun. It’s when flea markets and street shops begin selling hot cocoa and caramel apples, and toddlers waddle around swallowed by thick, multi-colored sweaters. There’s this sense of autumn everywhere, and you can feel it saturating everything with pumpkin spice and misery.

 

Damian hates it. Dick, on the other hand, loves it with every fiber of his being.

 

It’s the twenty-third of October, the kind of Tuesday people usually spend setting up holiday decorations or raking leaves. Normal people, that is. Although Pennyworth tries, the manor has never felt _festive_. Drafty and ominous and above all _lonely_ , sure, but not festive.

 

Which is the exact reason why Dick thought it crucial they visit a pumpkin patch and “get in the Halloween spirit.”

 

“Come on! It’ll be fun,” Dick says now, smiling over at the grumpy lump of boy riding shotgun.

 

“Halloween is childish and a waste of time,” Damian scowls back. He’d tried bringing up the weather before he was stuffed in the car, but Grayson would not be dissuaded. A cursory glance at the sky shows him meteorologist Brandy Kim was wrong. _Again_. Unless the scheduled storm rolls in within the next two hours, Damian might be fresh out of luck.

 

Dick shakes his head. “When was the last time we had fun together? Fun that _wasn’t_ bat-related. I thought you’d want to do something with me.” His tone is light, teasing, but Damian doesn’t miss the look that passes over his face when he side-eyes him. “I feel bad for not really being the best lately. That last Riddler mission... that wasn’t fair to you.” He’s referring to their argument last month. Damian remembers it well. It was that argument that prompted... _that_.

 

Damian can’t help but feel bad. After all, his behavior has nothing to do with Grayson. He hasn’t been outwardly _avoiding_ him; he’s just been... distant. Well, more distant than usual. Dick must have noticed, must feel that he’s at fault. As always, Dick is insufferably sincere.

 

Damian swallows around the suspicious lump forming in his throat. “I do not fault you for the argument. My actions were brash.”

 

"Is something going on?" Dick switches gears, and Damian's heart speeds up.

 

Yes. "No."

 

"Anything I should know about?"

 

 _No_. "Probably best you _don't_ suffer a stroke anytime soon."

 

Dick's mouth ticks up at one side, amused. "That bad, huh?"

 

"Not bad, per se, just..." Damian searches for the words, comes up empty-handed, and decides on: "Nothing that concerns you. I can handle myself."

 

Dick doesn’t look his way, instead focusing on the road ahead. When he brakes for a red light, Damian sees him turn his way in the passenger window reflection.

 

”You know you can talk to me, right?”

 

“Is that not what I am doing right now?”

 

_"Damian."_

 

Damian stares down at his lap. He picks at the seams of his jeans and sticks a finger into one of the new holes forming on his knee. He wears these pants so often they're becoming threadbare, barely held together by sheer faith and determination. They probably deserve to be put to rest after all their years of service, but Damian refuses to wear any others. He likes these jeans. They're comfortable.

 

The look Dick is wearing like a second skin is anything but. It makes Damian's flesh crawl. He knows what's coming next. Now it's the digging part, the part where Dick forces Damian's hand through his ribs to pull the deepest parts of himself out to be dissected and lampooned by the general assembly like some kind of sick movie. A few of those things Damian isn't ready to admit exist, let alone allow Dick to see.

 

So he says "I know," and leaves it at that.

 

He's saved from further discussion by their arrival at the pumpkin patch. He flees from the car like it's on fire. And in truth, he would've preferred that to the dumpster fire of a conversation _that_ was.

 

The topic isn't breached again until Damian's in the middle of picking out a _stupid_ pumpkin for Alfred. Dick sides up to him, the strangest expression painting his features, and wraps an arm around Damian's shoulders like it's the most natural thing in the world. He leans down conspiratorily until his face is right next to Damian's, his breath tickling his ear. "Thank you for putting up with me, Dami," he says and _kisses Damian's cheek._

 

It takes an hour and intense mental concentration for Damian's face to stop burning.

 

* * *

 

"Oh, what a lovely pumpkin," Alfred declares upon inspection of the squash. Damian was hesitant to give it over, wanted to set it on the kitchen counter and leave it up to the butler to find for himself, but Dick had placed a hand on his shoulder, so Damian complied, if only to keep from visibly shuddering at the contact.

 

"Dami picked it out all by himself." Dick, an insufferable mother hen, stands by and watches, as though picking out a fucking pumpkin is a great accomplishment. He ruffles Damian's hair. It disgusts him.

 

He leans into the touch.

 

"He did?" Even Alfred is surprised by this, apparently.

 

"I'm standing right here," Damian scowls.

 

Dick and Alfred exchange a look as creepy, mirrored smiles grow on their faces, dripping fondness. Damian could gag.

 

"Let's go, Grayson," Damian says to change the subject. "It's patrol time." He grabs Dick by the hand, intending to make a show of the ordeal to piss his brother off, but Dick intertwines their fingers and laughs this easy, breezy laugh that tugs at something in Damian's chest. He doesn't even have the heart to pull his hand away as they trudge down to the cave, holding appendages like school children. He could throw up. He could seriously throw up.

 

He doesn't. Robin sticks closer to Batman's side that night, watching. Waiting. And Batman, in turn, notices. He gives his partner the last popsicle in the freezer, and even brushes his fingers through his hair when they stop atop a building for a breather.

 

And that night, if Damian has trouble calming down, his skin flushed and hot to the touch, and slips the same hand his brother held down his sleep shorts, well... no one needs to know.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> damian:  
> dick: oh my sweet little baby lamb sweetie pie  
> damian:  
> damian: (〃ー〃)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY SORRY FOR LIKE NOT UPDATING IN FOREVER LMAO (not that anyone missed me tbh)

 

> _“What is common in all these dreams is obvious. They completely satisfy wishes excited during the day which remain unrealized. They are simply and undisguisedly realizations of wishes.”_

 Sigmund Freud

* * *

 

His forehead is beginning to drip with sweat. If he tugs at his shirt, it will peel from his back like adhesive, leaving a patch of sticky residue behind. Even his hands are clammy, for as shaky and uncertain as they may be, they don't seem to have any intention of stopping anytime soon.

 

God, this is a bad idea.

 

Damian shifts, his knees digging into Persian Bijar rug. He's reasonably confident he has carpet burn. But on a long list of other ails, carpet burn ranks significantly lower than, say, the current (and blatantly obvious) faux pas.

 

He can hear Dick speaking with Alfred downstairs. He's saying something about how patrol went, his voice smooth and low, the way it gets when he's tired. Damian could listen to him speak for hours, going on and on about this and that and everything in between. Unfortunately, Damian is on a tight schedule, and dawdling at the top of the staircase with his pants around his ankles is not on his to-do list.

 

Pennyworth's voice wafts through the house and up the stairs as though through water. "I worry about him, Master Dick. I don't believe he's getting enough vitamin D."

 

Damian breathes slowly out his nose. His hand stills.

 

"I don't think _vitamins_ are at the top of his priorities right now, Alfred," Dick replies, and Damian grips his hip bone like a lifeline. He sounds much older, more weathered. He sounds twice his age. After all, he's had to put up with Bruce the longest out of any of them. Damian's always admired him for that; even if most days, he pretends it doesn't sit in his gut like molten lava, eating away at his stomach lining, creeping up his esophagus.

 

But. Most days, he isn't palming himself to the voice of a man twice his age.

 

"That's why it needs to be at the top of _yours_ ," Alfred says so quietly Damian has to strain to hear it.

 

"I know, Alfred. The kid just doesn't let me take care of things. He's so _stubborn_ sometimes. _All the time_."

 

"Like so many others I know."

 

Grayson's chuckle makes something swoop low in Damian's belly. "He's a good kid. I know he is. But sometimes... he can be a real asshole, you know?" Both Alfred and Dick laugh in agreement. "And despite what you've said about puberty and growing up and all that, I'm pretty sure he's been avoiding me recently. It's almost like he's _hiding_ something."

 

Despite his usual upbeat tone, his words are peppered with a bitterness Damian keens after. What he'd _give_ to see his face, hear Dick tell him he misses him. He's mentioned it a few times since that fateful night last month, commented on how distant Damian has grown, how far back into his shell he's crawled. But he hasn't outwardly admitted to _missing_ Damian. He craves those words like he hasn't quite craved anything before. He can practically _taste_ them, can almost _feel_ the gentle caress of them against his ears. He wants to be wrapped up in Dick's voice, trapped under his gaze like a moth drawn to light. He wants to curl up in Dick's affection and never leave. He wants to _feel_.

 

Moisture prickles at his eyes. Angrily, he wipes it away with the back of his hand. He didn't come here to _cry_ like an _infant_. He came here to inspect.

 

What he's inspecting, Damian doesn't know. Perhaps he's investigating the root of his problem with Grayson, testing how he reacts to him. But no, that doesn't fit quite right. There's a piece of the puzzle that broke off and fell behind the table, and Damain's spent the last week crawling around in the dark searching for it. He can't turn on the light for fear Grayson himself will find him, naked and afraid and _oh_ , so shamefully _receptive_.

 

Damian bites the palm of his left hand to calm himself and keep his voice from escaping. Just listening to Dick talk about him has his body rocking forward, searching for any kind of relief. He can't stop thinking about Dick's hand in his hair, on his shoulder, pressing up against the small of his back. He hates this. _Hates_ it.

 

There are a lot of things he hates: the brush of a hand, a lingering pat on the shoulder. Even simple things such as a firm handshake or the wind tousling his hair too much dig under his skin like nails on a chalkboard. He _hates_ them. They remind him he's human, with a physical body that others can see, can touch. He doesn't like being touched. It feels wrong. _Dirty_. He likes living alone in his tower, unable to connect with others. It's safe that way. That's life as he's always known it.

 

But Dick makes him want to touch. Moreso, Dick makes Damian want to be _touched_.

 

Crouched at the top of the stairs, he waits, breathless. He doesn't know what he's doing. His hands have a mind of their own, mapping a trail across his skin, leaving gooseflesh in their wake. He imagines they aren't his hands at all. Instead, they are someone else's. Big, warm, _strong_ hands. Hands that could snap his neck on a whim. Hands that dwarf his slim waist, his smooth thighs. Those hands would be gentle but demanding. They'd take what they want, with no room for objection. Damian would have to cry and beg to earn what he dreams of. He'd have to earn it all. He'd have to be a good boy.

 

He sighs shakily, the hand that isn't his own trailing further and further down until finally, he reaches the X his intentions have marked. The place that won't calm, the place that aches. His _special_ _place_.

 

Downstairs, Dick's voice continues, and upstairs, hidden away behind the banister, Damian listens. The naughty little boy listens well.

 

Dick has always been hard on him about following orders. Damian wasn't keen on following anyone's orders at first, never-mind the cheap substitute Father left behind. He is the heir to an empire; Dick is an orphaned vigilante, just as every vigilante is these days.

 

But something changed. Damian told Grayson he must earn his respect. And strangely enough, Grayson was successful. Successful enough that Damian now yearns to hear his orders, to follow his commands, be a _good_ _boy_.

 

 _Oh, how he wants to do good_. He can! He really can! All he needs is a chance to prove himself. All he needs is for Dick to _notice_ _him_.

 

It must be by a cruel twist of fate that what happens next happens at all. Later, perhaps Damian will be able to revel in the irony of it. For now, he's terrified beyond a doubt.

 

Dick is calling for him. From the bottom of the staircase.

 

Damian doesn't know how Dick doesn't see him. He's _right here_. He can see the blue of the man's eyes, can already smell his aftershave and shampoo like he buried his nose in his neck. But Dick hasn't noticed him. Dick doesn't have any idea that Damian is right around the banister, thumbing the head of his cock to thoughts of him.

 

"Damian! Are you up there? I wanna talk!"

 

Damian bites his tongue. Just hearing Dick say his name is drawing a steady stream of pre-cum from his member. The whole situation, the danger he's in — he's never felt so hot before. He's going to melt into a puddle and slide down the stairs, and Dick's going to see and _oh god_ , Dick's going to _see_.

 

Dick sighs. "I know you're up there."

 

Damian's heart stops. He squeezes his eyes closed as though he's a stupid child who believes the monster won't get him if he can't see it. Stupidly, he keeps his eyes closed.

 

Another sigh from Dick sends Damian's heart into overdrive. He can't concentrate. He doesn't dare move. The only thing that matters is Dick, and if Dick's found him out...

 

"What are you doing up there anyway?" The bottom stair creaks under Dick's weight, and with it, goes the last shred of Damian's morality. He stuffs his persistent erection back into his shorts and does the only thing he knows how: he flees.

 

He collapses against his bedroom door, the lock sliding in place a deafening sound in the deathly quiet house. Wet tracks find their way down the apples of his cheeks as footsteps follow after him. Dick, on the other side of the wood. Damian, pressed as close against it as he can, sobbing into his sleeve and cursing the day he was ever born a boy.

 

He drowns out Dick's worried babbles. Unfortunately, something sticks right before his older brother gives up.

 

"I'm sorry, Dami. I don't know why you're mad, but you can talk to me when you're ready."

 

Damian's voice is hoarse when he says, "Thank you." As soon as it's out, he regrets it. He never thanks Grayson. He doesn't show emotions such as gratitude. He can't—

 

But then: "That's my boy."

 

* * *

 

Damian thinks about those three words for hours. He'd had to take care of himself eventually, and once he accepted that he is a terrible person and reconciled most of his disgust with that certain body part, he'd replayed those three words in his head. He imagined Dick's face, the soft smile that must have been there to match the fond tone. And then he'd gone to sleep, another item added to his mental to-do list.

 

#1: talk to Grayson.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am a slut for comments pls validate me


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i put off writing this chapter because i felt damian's characterization was out of character last chapter and it was driving me nuts and giving me anxiety but then i realized: oh yeah, this is fanfiction and it doesn't really matter ;P
> 
> plot snuck in here sorry about that *shrug* more smut hopefully next chapter tho ehe

 

> _"If a small thing has the power to make you angry, does that not indicate something about your size?"_

 Sydney J. Harris

* * *

 

Damian feels sick.

 

Jason must notice, or maybe he has a kind of sixth sense for Robins in distress he could be tormenting because he's no longer staring at the wall like it's going to fall over and strike him. It's Damian he's glaring at now. He glares like he believes if he glares hard enough, Damian will up and disappear.

 

It wouldn't be terribly far from the truth.

 

"What are you looking at, Todd?" he hisses, against his better judgment. He should move away, ignore Todd and his foul attitude, but the idea of orbiting Grayson like a second shadow has his insides bunching together. They were supposed to talk. He'd gathered the courage, but the moment never came; this idiotic mission popped up and foiled his plans. He isn't in the mood to be the kid brother today.

 

"What's your deal?" Jason hisses back, loud, snappy, because he's incapable of being anything else. The others don't notice – or perhaps they simply don't have the patience for either of them at the moment; Dick is arguing with Tim by the Batcomputer about – well, about whatever it is they usually argue about, and Tim is too distracted hacking into an online mainframe to give a damn.

 

Damian shrugs evasively and does his best to glower at the back of Grayson's head. It's better than the alternative. "I don't have a deal."

 

"Nah, you always have a _deal_. It's like you have a perpetual wedgie or some shit. Like, who pissed in your cereal? You aren't the one that _died."_

 

Damian could strangle him.

 

"Besides, we all know you're Dickie's favorite."

 

Damian's ears perk up, despite himself. Immediately, he feels them warm. Stupid. He rolls his eyes to hide his embarrassment, avoiding the elder's steady gaze.

 

But then Jason makes a noise. It's stuck between a scoff and a snort, the softest noise Damian's ever heard from him. He glances at him in surprise, only to watch the edge of Jason's mouth curl upwards, the way it does when he's being lewd. It's a... a very inappropriate look. 

 

"That got your attention, huh?" Jason smirks. "How's it feel being big bro's fav? He never did like me."

 

If he diverted some of the energy he uses to maintain that pretentious facade to his brain, he might draw a few conclusions. But this is Jason, so he contemplates the reason why that might be for all of two seconds, then scoffs. He sucks on the cigarette between his fingers, blowing the smoke in Damian's face.

 

"I'm not his favorite," Damian says.

 

"Sure. Because he seemed to drop Replacement real fast for you."

 

Damian's fingers twitch restlessly against his sides. "I..." _don't have anything to say._ With a start, he realizes Jason is slinking forward, his hips swaying. It’s over the top. Damian feels his ears burn at the show. Jason’s just trying to get a rise out of him. He should know better.

 

Like a train wreck, he can’t look away.

 

Jason bends down to his eye level, coming close. For how long he’s been jerking them around by a proverbial leash, Damian has never been this close to him before – save his near-death experiences with the one-man looney bin. He can smell the leather of his jacket, see his expanding pupils, the sweat on his upper lip. He stares, completely disarmed. He doesn't have a chance to bite out a scathing remark because something flashes across Jason's face. And in dawning terror, Damian sees recognition settle in his expression like a bullet wound to the chest.

 

"Are you blushing?"

 

Damian could puke. He could puke right onto Todd. He could stab him with his sword, run, escape, do _something_.

 

He can't do anything but stand there and blush like an idiot.

 

Jason coos. "Aw, that's _adorable_. Big Bird's got another little one under his wing." Damian shoves him back, but Jason only grins wider in a weird, perverse way that has Damian's heartbeat picking up. He can't... he can't know about it.

 

...Can he?

 

Something must show on his face. Maybe Todd really does have a sixth sense, because there's no other way he could've put the two together. There's... he _can't_. _He can't he can't he can't he—_

 

"Hey, chill, kid, I'm just messing around," Jason tries, but Damian throws a punch before he can think better of it.

 

Predictably, it ends with Damian pinned under Jason's massive.... everything. His bulky thighs trap Damian, a hand on his throat. There's heat in his gaze, the dangerous kind. Damian knows he's crazy. He knows Jason's a ticking time bomb. There's only so much he can take before he snaps.

 

But if Jason's unhinged, Damian is feral.

 

* * *

 

Dick is disappointed, and Damian feels sick. Mostly, he's angry.

 

Dick stares at him from across the table. He taps his nails against the surface of the dinner table with what Damian can only classify as irritation. There's a bowl of untouched chili sitting between them, probably cold now. Alfred's peace offering.

 

Damian can't bring himself to even look at it. Inside of him, his heart settles in the pit of his belly. It's digging its claws in, pulling his insides apart, only to stitch him back up again before he has a chance to heal. He can feel his lunch working itself up his esophagus. He burns holes through his lap.

 

Dick's patience is wearing thin. "Can you not play nice with anyone long enough for me to get two seconds to myself? You _know_ what we have with Jason is fragile. We _just_ got him to help us with this case after _so long_. You _know_ this."

 

Damian does know this. The accomplishment he'd felt at breaking the rules, the sick jolt of arousal at fighting with Jason – it's all seeped out of him, spent. Damian is a husk of his former rage. He feels used.

 

He swallows. "I know," he whispers hoarsely. It feels as though his throat is going to close up entirely.

 

Dick sneers at this, not the slightest tint of humor to it. Damian sinks into his chair.

 

"You should be thankful he didn't try to kill you – _again_."

 

"I _know_ ," Damian repeats, the quiet words spit between clenched teeth.

 

Dick levels him with a look. It's supposed to be meaningful, but Damian can't interpret the slant to his brow, the set to his jaw. He's never been good at reading emotions.

 

He's never been good.

 

* * *

 

Todd does come around again, two days later, to tell Dick to get Damian a collar and keep him in the cave "like the animal he is." He showed to wrap up their joint case, but that's the only constructive thing he says all night. Then he leaves again.

 

"I don't expect we will see Master Jason again for quite some time," the old butler admits as they stand in the kitchen for mugs of tea afterward. Tim has disappeared as well, probably still angry at Dick (and Damian too, because that's a given), but the manor doesn't mourn him the way it does Jason. No one questions why he came back for this specific case.

 

"That's too bad. I was hoping he'd stick around this time." Dick's face scrunches in disappointment, but it is no longer aimed at Damian.

 

Pennyworth makes his way to bed then. Damian and Dick stay where they are, tucked into the breakfast nook. Dick's watching Damian again.

 

"What?" Damian demands.

 

Grayson props his chin in his hand, reaching across the table with his free hand to gently bump his thumb against Damian's. Damian's hand spasms in alarm.

 

"Don't look at me like that," Dick chuckles.

 

"...Like what?"

 

"Like you're thinking of every way to escape. I'm not going to bite."

 

Damian readies himself for a fight, his hackles rising, but Dick sighs tiredly. He doesn't rise to the bait Damian throws at him, either; he just watches Damian solemly.

 

"I hope you'll tell me eventually," Dick says quietly. "I know I'm not who you want, or even who you need right now, but... I hoped I'd be able to... well, handle this, at least." He hums, lifting himself out of the chair, and by the time he's straightened his scratchy sleep shirt, the mask is back in place. He smiles at Damian. "Get some sleep, Dami." He makes to leave, turning away, but he doesn't make it two steps before Damian's sharp voice slices through the palpable silence.

 

"You can't expect me to believe that."

 

Dick levels him with a blank stare. "What?"

 

"You don't want me here. You don't want me at all." The words taste bitter on his tongue. He swallows it down with his growing unease.

 

Again, Dick doesn't take the bait. He shrugs to mask the hurt Damian sees bleeding through his unwavering smile. "Yeah, but you're here now, and you're one of us. You're my Robin. Nothing you believe will change that."

 

Damian stills as though slapped. He can't quite quell the sudden flush creeping across his cheeks or the way his small thighs squeeze together, mouth parted on a silent gasp. He digests the words slowly _(you're my Robin you're my Robin you're my Robin)_ and Dick watches. Always watching. Damian can feel his eyes like a physical brand. He could vibrate out of his skin.

 

"Goodnight, Damian," Dick whispers after a long, silent moment.

 

Damian swallows and hurriedly blurts out a "Tt. Goodnight yourself," but Dick laughs, so he figures it's alright.

 

* * *

 

It is later that night that Damian finds it. Resting atop his dresser is a small folded slip of paper. A yellow sticky-note. On it, a single line. An address.

 

 _Todd_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> although Jason does appear in batman & robin (2009), his characterization is.. pretty bad. so i've decided i'm just doing whatever the fuck i want with this i guess! lol this started out as a one-shot vent and then catapulted into this huge thing that i don't feel fully capable of completing but as i always say, here for a good time, not a long time


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